


The Little Things

by PennySerenade



Category: Room - Emma Donoghue
Genre: Dark, Despair, Explicit Language, F/M, Forced Pregnancy, Kidnapping, Rape/Non-con Elements, Swearing, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-18
Updated: 2016-11-02
Packaged: 2018-08-09 14:50:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7806121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PennySerenade/pseuds/PennySerenade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How life was before Jack came into the world. The violence and despair Ma experiences at the hands of Old Nick after she's kidnapped.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a bit dark. I just felt like there was parts of the book and movie that had story left to tell. I've changed some details from mainly the book to fit this story's timeline.

 

It’s the mundane you never stop to think about. Every night before bed, “goodnight Ma, night Dad!” And then in the dark under my covers, as I message my best friend about where we would go tomorrow after practice. Maybe I’d even skip practice instead.  Sleep slowly sneaks up on me, but I’m safe and tight in this blanket of security. Not thinking for a second that all these commonplace things that I had once known would be stolen from me. Just like I was stolen.

 

* * *

 

"Joy! Get up now or you’ll miss the bus.” I remember a distant voice calling.

Monday morning – my greatest enemy. How long ago did Mom warn me to get ready? Peering over at the clock and seeing the dreaded 7:00 AM red digits, I let out a long groan, knowing that the bus passed my street a few minutes ago.

Rolling dramatically out of bed, I can’t seem to care about getting dressed up for school anymore. I put on my favorite jeans, even though they’re dirty, and a plain t-shirt. Red chap stick. Coat and hat. Off to school. October has yet to unleash the bitter cold weather so I’ll be able to walk.

Passing Mom’s door as quick as I can but it’s too late, “Joy!”

My mother; neatly dressed and not one bag under her eye. Is there something wrong with my generation that we can’t achieve the same enthusiasm for the start of the day? It seems like every day on the bus there’s at least a handful of my peers missing.

She gives me that 'amused but trying to be disappointed' look.

“You’d think a 17-year-old wouldn’t need help getting ready in the morning,” she sarcastically remarks.

“Well this 17-year-old is going to use her young legs to walk to school,” I sass.

“You know I don’t like you walking by yourself,” Mom reminds me.

“It’s like a ten-minute walk, I’ll cut through the parking lot,” I suddenly decide. Our neighborhood was across the street from library, once you pass it there’s an easy road to the school. Away from the busy streets and cars that my mother seems to be worried about.

“No, let me call someone to drive you. I think Patty would, she’s off in the mornings.” My mother is already on the way to the phone. At the moment we only have one car – which my dad’s using for the day.

“Ma please,” I whine. “It’ll take her longer to get here than for me to walk to school.”

“Well you don’t seem to care if you’re there on time, so why not wait a few more minutes?”

“I’m already going!” I wind down the stairs.

“Joy!” she calls. “At least take some breakfast!”

But I’m already on the other side of the door. Anyway, she knows I prefer to eat my granola bars during class because my lunch period is too early in the day. It’s basically acting as a second breakfast so why not skip the first breakfast. Just like skipping the bus or my mom’s offer for a ride. But most importantly it’s like skipping my whole life.

Puffs of air are visible as I breath hard to walk quickly pass the sidewalk. I always forget that walks end up being longer than expected. Especially at 7:15 in the morning – and the bell rings obnoxiously at 7:30 AM.

 _Will I actually get there in time?_ I wonder. Although I’m always tired, I’m hardly ever late for school. ‘Goodie, goodie’ my friends affectionately call me.

My legs pump faster. The burn from yesterday’s sprint is still deep in my muscles, but it sort of pleases me. Reminding me of the proud feeling that sits beneath my surface as I know Mom and Dad are cheering my name – “Joy” not only on their lips but in their hearts.

I look back at the house, sorta feeling guilty about being quick with my mother. We’re like that a lot before school starts. Often disagreeing about the little things. The things you forget. I wish I told her I loved her. I could go back and tell her, but I really didn’t have time. There’s never any time.

Crossing the street to the parking lot, I walk horizontally to cross the entirety of the lot and passing the vacant side of library. I know they won’t open for two more hours. Finally, I’m on the road to school. Tossing my head over my shoulder, I see a vehicle pulling into the increasingly distant parking lot. _Why would someone be going to the library at this hour?_

I walk faster.

It’s easy to feel spooked when you’re alone. Goosebumps suddenly emerge and then reassuring yourself that you’re only being silly. The lonely road I’m on doesn’t usually have cars on it, especially at this hour. Maybe one or two if they missed their turn on the main and needed to cross back to the other side. Because the road acted as a mediator between two sides of this small town. It was mainly frequented by bikers who used it to safely cross to the bike path that lay past my neighborhood.

I’m walking fast and fast and fast. And then all of a sudden – there it is.

The school building just one street over.

Waiting for the traffic to slow, I turn my head back one more time. Nothing is there. Shaking my head at my nonsense, I rush past the cars and briskly stride myself into the main entrance.

“You’re looking sleepy,” someone says, as I feel a poke at my shoulders.

“Danielle.” I happily turn to my friend.

“I saw you walking and I thought about calling out to you,” she says theatrically. “But you know I hate shouting your name.”

My group of friends are always teasing me about the name Joy. ‘ _It sounds like I’m calling out my emotions’_ they pestered. “Anger!” “Sadness!” they occasionally called me.

“At least I’m not the boy version of Daniel." 

“Hey, Daniel is a strong name,” she laughs.

Depositing my backpack into my locker, I finally take a long breath. The exhaustion I felt this morning is really catching up with me.

“You ok?” Danielle asks with concern, leaning against my locker.

“Yeah, just having a weird day already." 

“Well you are pretty weird, so I guess I’m not surprised.” My best friend smiles at me.

“I’m too tired to go to practice today. I can already feel it,” I complain, leaning my head against the locker too. The bell is about to ring and I’m not mentally ready to actually start the day.

“The sad life of Joy,” Danielle sighs.

“Wanna ditch with me?” I ask, but already know the answer.

“You know this is the only real exercise I get.” She nudges me. “Don't try to corrupt me.”

“Fine, I guess I’m all alone.” I give her my best batting eyelashes.

“Stop it." 

* * *

 

By eighth period, I’m already nodding off. It’s only AP economics and my teacher is giving us the hundredth lecture on his views of inflation.

When the final bell rings, instead of heading toward my locker I’m fighting the current of students to make my way to the girl’s locker-room. I want to tell my coach I’m not feeling the best and that I’ll be missing practice today.  _So sorry Coach, I think I'm getting the flu!_

By the time I get to my locker, I remember that Mom and Dad still think I have practice. _Whoops_.

Whipping out my phone, I hurriedly call Mom’s number.

“Hello?” she answers, even though she knows it’s me from the caller ID.

“Mom, could I get a ride home? I’m not going to practice today.”

“Why not?” she asks with alarm.

“I don’t know, I’m just too tired,” I whine.

I have enough sense to acknowledge that teenagers transform into babies when talking to their parents.

“Oh pumpkin, I wish you told me earlier. No one’s home right now." 

I pause for a second thinking about my options.

“It’s ok I’ll walk home. It was seriously so quick this morning.”

“I really, really don’t like you walking by yourself,” Mom repeats herself from earlier today.

“There’s probably bikers on the trail right now and other students.” I roll my eyes over the phone.

They were never like this with my older brother.

“And just think about it, next year I’ll be walking all by myself all the time. I should get out more," I state, reminding her of how it will be when I’m away at college.

“Yeah and I guess I should start letting go?” my mother good-humoredly engages.

“Yep, that would be just great,” I laugh.

There’s only a few strangler students in the hallway by this point.

“Watch out for cars Joy.”

It’s always been cars she’s worried about. Ever since I was little, Mom never loved driving and she didn’t really trust other drivers.

“I will! Love you Ma.”

* * *

 

My journey home from the school is already much more relaxing than my journey this morning. I can almost feel my blankets; cozy and warm. I’m going to reheat last night’s dinner and eat in bed. I always do when no one’s home. I’m not even going to think about homework until after I take a long nap.

It’s gray out and it actually looks like it might rain, so I’m not surprised when I don’t see any bikers on the trail. Who wants to bike on a day like this? Just another reason I’m not going to practice. Cold and rainy don’t make a good match for me. _Nope I’m going home_ , I think happily.

However, I am surprised when I round the corner of the road and see a truck parked on the far lane.

A man’s voice is shouting something, but not in a threatening way, he just seems distressed.

“Molly!” he calls out. His back is facing me as he leans into his truck. 

I feel bad just walking by someone who needs help, but what else can I do?

Suddenly my shoes seem really interesting. When I’m about to pass him, with my guilty eyes downcast, the man turns to me in shock. He appears close to forty and he’s dressed like a dad in clean jeans (unlike me) and sad glasses. He rushes forward in earnest. 

“Oh, honey do you, you know anything about _dogs_?” He frantically asks, using the “honey” title that all unacquainted adults seem to practice on kids.

But I’m not a kid. And for a second my air of adulthood creeps on me. I tell him, looking him directly in his eyes, because kids never look you in the eye.

“Not really.”

He looks so dejected. Like when Dad comes home and realizes he forgot something on the list Mom sent him out with. Like when my AP Economics teacher scans the room and realizes that nothing he is saying is getting through to us. For some reason I’ve always felt the worst for older men.

Poor guy.

“My dog's having a fit, her tongue, she's choking,” he says quickly, leaning forward and getting in the way of the truck's doorway.

"She's big, I, I, can't hold her by myself, could you help me take her out and hold her to keep her from choking?" 

For a second the image of my childhood dog Pepper flashes before me. Wagging tail. 

"Oh.." I hesitate, looking over my shoulder. 

"Please, _please_ I don't know what else to do," his watery voice breaks.  

 _Shit_.

"Okay okay, where is she?" I head toward the dog, where she must be flopped in the passenger seat.

I round the car, away from the man, but there's nothing there when I reach the window. No dog.

When I’m running on the trail for cross country or track, I see blurs all around me. The sidelines are hazy as I move quickly by them. I can only concentrate on what’s ahead, the far distance. The upward hills and long stretch of lands that lay before me.

Now there’s nothing but a blur all around me. Even though I’m not the one moving this time, he is. My vision dips at awkward angles as I thrash against the force. Never in my life have I been grabbed before. Not by my parents. Not by anyone.  

It hits me hard; arm around waist, body too close to mine. And before I can even think, damp fabric heavy on my mouth. I'm crushed against the car. 

There’s a muffled scream in my throat that I know only I can hear. 

I see my Mom’s worried face. And that’s the last bit of clarity I have before all the lights go out.

 


	2. Chapter 2

I wake in a fit of coughs. My tongue and throat feel like they've cracked. I dry heave for a few more seconds as I gain lucidity. 

Eyes scrutinize the dimly-lighted room. There’s only one light on as my vision gains more focus. What kind of hospital room is this?

Hospital room. Now I remember.

I was attacked by somebody. Who was it? A man on street.

 _What did he do to me?_ My brain rushes to recall anything. But there’s nothing there to recollect, all I can remember is that stupid dog name. And then him grabbing my limbs together and a gagging, ill-tasting cloth on my lips. That’s it.

The taste still lingers on my tongue.

“Hey,” I yell out to somebody.

But there’s nothing. No noise around at all actually.

“Please help.” I try again.

Nothing.

In fact, I feel like nothing. The apparent emptiness that is surrounding me invades my stomach. It hurts.

I barrel out the bed I’ve been laid in, a complete opposite from earlier this morning when I missed the bus. My legs feel like jelly, but I push them hard like I’ve been taught to. What is this? I look down at the ugly rug, to the bath tub across from the bed, to the kitchen set up in the corner. Lastly, I look up at the one window in the room – a skylight. Where the sky is turning a deep blue, signaling the end of sundown.

 _'This isn’t a hospital room!'_   something inside me screams. 

Like a trapped mouse, I’m running from side to side. Banging on the door that won’t open. The strange key pad that is next to the door makes my stomach hurt even more.

“What the fuck!” I scream as loud as I can.

“Help, oh my gosh please help me! Somebody please!” My underused voice is hoarse but my mind doesn’t care.

Everything in me is rejecting this. My heart is beating so fast I can hear it in my head, giving my frantic thoughts company as I tear this room apart.

I bang on the door till my fists feel numb. And then I rush to the other walls throwing my body against them.

When I’m sore and all I can do is catch my breath, my conscious tries to calm my panic. _This could be something else, maybe you’re in a holding cell for your own protection. For some reason? Wait till you talk to somebody_.

But my heart knew better. I was dying. This was already a grave to me.

Weeping, I berate myself, “stupid, stupid, stupid.” Why didn’t I listen to my mother? Why didn’t I go with Danielle to practice?

I’m just a child I realize. I don’t know anything.

Who knows how long I’ve been awake. I have a feeling it’s only been minutes, though it of course seems like hours. This should be over by now. No matter what’s happened in my life, I always end up back in my own bed – with the “goodnight Mom, night Dad.” I’d give anything to see them right now.

 

 

**BEEP BEEP.**

 

My head springs up at the sound of an alarm outside. The door is opening quickly, revealing a quick glance at the tall bushes that surround the area.

“HELP!”

I’m on my feet and screaming as loud as I can. And a giant weight pushes me down. It’s pain I’ve never experienced, pain at the hands of someone else.

“Don’t ever fucking do that again,” a deep voice informs me.

My breath can’t keep up with the sobs racking my chest.

“C’mon get off the ground,” he says more as of a suggestion. 

Peering out of my hair, the man places a bag of something on the table in the “kitchen.” He takes a seat at the chair and looks stonily at me. 

I hide my eyes back in my hands.

“We need to talk,” the man calmly states.

There’s a beat for a second. I have to know.

“About what?” I don’t recognize my voice. It’s small. And groggy. How could he do this?

“About the rules. I’ll allow you some question and answers,” he smugly says.

Fear is coursing through each fiber of my body, engulfing every corner I thought I was once in control of.

"Why am I here? What’s happening?” I ask through a sob. 

“Because you’re here. Because I can. That’s why,” the voice responds matter-of-factly.

“Where is it?” I dread the answer.

“It’s a place I’ve built from the bottom up. A shed you could say. But it’s more than that, it’s basically unbreakable,” he proudly looks around the room.

“But why?” I beg.

“This place needs someone to be here for it, so why not you?”

He’s insane. He must be. 

"But.. I just.. I don't understand," I hyperventilate. "Why? _Why_?" 

"I don't need to repeat myself, that's not why I'm here," he firmly states. End of conversation. 

"Then why are you here?" My voice meekly asks. I'm on autopilot. It's hard to believe that I'm the one speaking, it must not really be me. 

"I'm here for you," he concludes my darkest nightmare. 

I’m going to die if no one finds me. Which seems impossible with the door sitting there right behind me. But as a gather myself to stand to face him, I see a different man than I did earlier this afternoon.

No more dad vibe. He’s almost as tall as my standing height while he’s sitting down. His unkempt beard looks similar to every scary head-shot of the villain you see in movies. The eyes gleaming behind his glasses give him an intellectual appearance that make him out to be darker than the stereotypical simpleminded, criminal image. There’s no way I can overcome him. I feel like a mouse facing a lion.

“Please. Please. I have a mom and dad.” Tears running down my face again at this thought. “They’re probably so worried,” I try to appeal to him.

“I would imagine they are,” he dismisses. “But you’re alright, they need not worry.”

I want to ask why shouldn’t they worry? Why?

"Please." My faltering voice continues to beg. Who is this pathetic creature? I haven't met her before.

_Pull it together._

"Listen." I try to negotiate. "I don't know you, you don't know me." 

I put my hands up in a placating motion. "Let me go and I swear I won't tell anyone about you. I swear. I won't remember a thing. We can just walk away from this."

There's a quiet pause. A hopeful beat in my chest. 

"You can do this."

But he only laughs.

"Nice try. But that's the best part. I can do whatever I want," he says, with an awful smile. 

And that's it?  Why is this happening? How is this happening? My body feels carved out of thin ice. I'm floating far far far like a sinking glacier, but looking all around and I'm still here. How am I here? 

This isn't supposed to be where I am. I'm supposed to be eating dinner with my parents. I'm supposed to be safe. 

“I’m only seventeen,” I croak. My head falling down as tears invade my eyes once again. “I need to go home, please, _please_."

He stares at me. Long and hard. Finally, he gathers to his feet. I’m already inching away from him, my body instinctively moving as far as it can to be away from this monster.

“This is your home now.”

I shake my head fervently at this injustice. No no no no nonononononoono.

No.

“Let me go home!” I cry and cry and cry.

The man, again like a lion, paces around the middle floor. Getting closer and closer.

“Only seventeen huh?” he questions.

My overworked heart has probably stopped by this point.

“Have you ever been with a man before?”

My stomach wants to vomit, but my body won’t move. Not a single part of me is working. I can’t even raise my eyes to look at him, but I see his sneakers getting closer to my own shoe-less feet. Hands clinging to the closet wall, I try to move farther away but suddenly he’s there.

And then instantly everything inside me jumps awake with a scream.

“Get off me! Get your fucking hands off me!” I’m screeching loudly in his ear.

My entire body is scratching and kicking and trying to kill him for this. 

A whirl of heavy winds. 

But before I know it I’m exhausted - more than I've ever been. More than when I've completed a long race and leaned over to catch my labored breath. Now I have no breath. 

He’s already pushed me to the bed. And with one simple hand pressed to my back, he’s able to hold me down. Then a knee against my back. And off come my favorite jeans. And off any layer that protects me from him. When he turns me back over, my trapped hands try to gouge his eyes but he bites me and I cry out as I pull back. My hands once again trapped by his one arm.

His belt unbuckled. And now he’s between my legs. And then everything hurts.

It hurts it hurts it hurts.

“Help,” I cry.

He merely laughs in my ear.

My skin below is burning, almost as if it was on fire. It feels like forever. Have I been here my whole life? I couldn’t have possibly woken up this morning in my own bed. With a loving home. And breakfast that I skipped.

 _Let me go, let me go, let me go,_ my insides are screaming. His body is solid against mine, and I can’t bear the weight of this new renovation.

I see my mom again. Her worried face. I think my heart is breaking beyond repair and can never be fixed.

When it’s over, he remains there on top of me. He breathes deeply into my face. I already hate the smell of him. This man looks straight into my eyes, like he sees something there. Though all I’ve shown him is tears and hate. My face contorts as I cringe away from his gaze. His fingers dig into my scalp and I’m forced to look back up. By then its really over. 

The man rolls off me. He didn’t even take of his clothes. While my pants and underwear lay discarded on the floor.

I want to move nothing. To be nothing. Dissolve away into the air and escape through the cracks of the Room. All I hear are my short of breath gasps shaking violently from my stomach to mouth. In and out.

In and out. 

In. Out. 

I want out. 

“Patience was never my greatest virtue,” his voice calls, somewhere distant in the room. My eyes only see the ceiling.

“But I guess you’ll come to understand that,” he says, as he inches back up to the bed. “I left you some food to eat. You can read. Um I don’t know, draw? Maybe.”

This can’t be it.

“I’ll be back tomorrow night.” He nods in my direction.

 

 

**BEEP BEEP.**


	3. Chapter 3

"Joy!"

I dig farther into the pillow. 

"Joy, time to get up for school!" 

Rolling over, I’m nowhere near ready to get up from bed. My head is pounding. I’m taking a sick day, that’s it. There’s no way I’m going to school today. Because something inside me wants to dig further into bed, to never open my eyelids.

But I do, _the day must be met_. As my Dad would always remind us.

Instead of the light pink room I redecorated when I was 13, my pupils wake to fire burning – since that’s all I see around.

For I’m in the Room still.

This Room.

I fell asleep in my nightmare, but I woke up and I'm still here. Raging emotion that steams through my very core. My nostrils even take in the smell of dark smoke. I feel my life burning away.

Looking down, I’m still half naked. My forehead twitches in unbelief, shock once again taking over.

It feels like I’m being timed – get up, get out, find help.

I wipe away the mess on my lower half, most of it dried between my legs; blood and semen. Girls have been warned before, if you’re ever attack don’t wash or shower. Get to a doctor and have the DNA collected.

 _Keep thinking like that,_ an inner voice tells me. Yes – I’ll keep thinking like I’m getting out of here. Like help is on the way and I’ll have the evidence to put him away forever. Because surely they must be looking for me? They have to. That’s what happens when kids disappear; they’ll search all over. Maybe this man’s name is on some sort of criminal register list, they’ll come knocking.

But as soon as I think this dread fills me back up. I have no idea where I am, I could be in another state for all I know.

“Stop it.”

Startled, I realize it’s my own voice out loud. It’s time to move, it’s time to leave.

Rushing from the bed, I check the locked door again. Banging on it with all my strength, but it won't budge. It's metal and I'm not, I'm liquid flesh and no match for anything.

"Hello, is anyone there?" I scream, waiting a few seconds. "Hello, please help!" 

There's no sound, just like yesterday. I begin dialing random numbers on the keypad to see if any of them could be the secret code. I know this isn’t accountable – there could be a million combinations. 

Jumping up, it’s like the clock is ticking loudly in the background. ‘ _Hurry, Hurry’_ it chants. I glance down at my own watch tightly enclosed on my wrist; tick tock, get out. 

Everything in my sight starts spinning as daylight gazes in. From the only window.

The Skylight.

That’s it.

Quickly dragging the table to the center of the room that will get me closer to the roof. I crawl up the table and drag the chair along with me. I’m wobbly all over, inside and outside. But I do it, beginning to bang the metal folding chair against the skylight window. It bounces noisily off the strange material.

Bang, bang, bang, bang.

Tick tock tick tock tick tock.

Must be 15 minutes.

Must be Half an hour.

Must be 40 minutes.

Breathe, pant, lower my arms, go again.

An Hour? Two? 

My arms are sore. I drop the chair. Now scratching at the window's edges, trying to gain leverage as my nails crack off, a droplet of blood hitting my face. Don't _feel_. 

My wobbling tips the table over and my body is crashing. Landing hard on the rug. Ignore the pain. Looking upwards, the window doesn’t even have a scratch on it. Next to me, the chair’s leg that is all dented and scuffed up. Just like me. 

Scared, I put everything back where it was found.

“Ok, ok what now? What now…” I try to remain calm. But I can’t. I’ve wasted all these hours sleeping and banging on a windowless window. When will  ** _he_**  be back? 

Panic wells like a storm cloud.

“HELP!”

“Help, someone please! I need help!” my voice is screeching.

I run closer to the door, maybe they (whoever they is) can hear me better from the cracks. Although the tightly closed door seems incapable of letting any noise out. I bang and kick loudly. 

“Help me! Help!”

My hoarse voice is beginning to strain. Instead of using words now, I just let out bloodcurdling screams. They sound like death. Because they are. This must be my end. 

Another hour?

Eventually the screams drown out, mewls that can barely be heard by me let anyone from the outside world. But the screaming in my head doesn’t dim.

“Shut up.”

Looking at the keypad, filled with numbers and letters. I start choosing random combinations. Not coherent enough to choose a system, I begin typing away. 

_Please. Please. Please. Please. Please._

Eventually I begin banging on the door again with my other hand. And screaming loudly as I push buttons. Can anyone hear me? 

Two hours?

Nothing.

Eyes begin twitching as my stare burns into the pad. My body is sore from standing in one spot for so long. Bruised all over from last night, from today as I spiral around the Room. Realizing that I haven’t even had any water, I haphazardly walk to the “kitchen.”

Opening the strange mini refrigerator door – I find juice and water. 

_Don’t drink it, it could be drugged._

_**I have to, I’m so thirsty.** _

_What fight can you put up if you’re out of it?_

**_What did it matter last night, anyway?_ **

_And if it kills you?_

_**I don’t care.** _

Grabbing one water bottle and I down it in seconds. Reaching for another, I drink half. My burning throat wants more. But what if this is all he gives me and I didn’t portion control? No, stop it doesn’t matter, you’re getting out of here.

Scanning the walls of behind the kitchen, the place I’ve least been near, I stretch my hands against the wall. Looking for anything. Any hole, any weak spot.

When I’ve found nothing, I ram my body against the surface tiles. Nothing.

I do the same to all the walls, moving the objects like the wardrobe out of the way. Stretching behind the bathtub, to check for any openings. My arms covered in yellow spots that will bruise. I ache all over.

Nothing nothing nothing.

Maybe back to the skylight?

 

 

 

**BEEP BEEP.**

No. No. Please.

The door is swinging open. Again, a quick flash of tall bushes and maybe even some trees. Heavily surrounded. And the fresh air that bursts into the stuffy room makes me want to cry. The contrasts between the smell of the outside and inside are parallel to life and death.

I do everything I can to look and feel all around, to avoid what this breath and insight from the outside world means.

Because it means, Him.

My hooded eyes glance up, as I slowly back away towards the kitchen – farthest away from the bed. Trying to stop my body shaking in terror. But chills sweep over me, the pit of my stomach is icy.

His dark jeans and collared shirt give little idea to what work he must do. But it has to be enough to have created all _this_ – this cage.

“I came early today. Thought you could use some company,” he says easily.

Like we’re friends.

“The first days of anything are hard.”

I give the most aggressive face I could muster.

“I’m not ignorant.” He sounds like he’s trying to appeal to logic. “I know this is going to take some getting used to.”

Wish I had found something to gouge his eyes with.

“But you will. As long as you do as I say, there won’t be a problem between us. That’s really it. Those are the rules.”

I’ll give him nothing.

“Where am I?” I demand.

 He looks at me smugly; the key to all my answers.

“Like I said last night, we’re in a shed I built.”

“So in your backyard?” I try to sound in control, but my hoarse voice breaks.

He smiles at that. “Yes.”

“Are we still in-state?”

He shrugs.

I wait.

He waits.

So I ask it. “How long will I be here?”

I don’t even care if that’s not what I’m supposed to question.

“For as long as I want.”

And I guess what he wants he gets. Sick hate boils deeply within me as it burns my beating heart alive. I am my own cage inside this cage. These feelings rattle within me, born anew.

I’ve always been so normal. But now I can already see how the “me” before this has faded, these irreversible feelings transforming my very being. The old Joy would have felt ill to even experience these emotions – she never liked conflict. But now I want to watch this man die. I’m waiting for the police to bust down that stupid door and shoot him where I stand. Is this what human survival is? Pure self-preservation? Even at the cost of another human’s life? Yes, I’d gladly take it.

I stare. He stares.

Eventually he places the small grocery bag down. I stand very still as he passes me. He’s straightening up the place. The Room.

“It’ll be your job to keep things tidy.” He turns back around towards me. “Or you’ll hear about it.”

He’s trying to get me to engage about the Room, about something other than the outside and focus on the inside.

“Tell me your name,” he says softly. Like he’s not already been inside me. Like he doesn’t hold my whole once-upon-a-time-clean-world in the palm of his dirty hands. A friendly question for new acquaintances.

My jaw locks.

“I asked you a question.”

Lips curl in a tight line.

He steps closer into my space, staring down at me.

_Don’t shrivel away, Joy._

“If you do as I say, we can be happy. I wasn’t lying.”

I raise my eyes to his height.

“Fuck you.”

The man does a half smile, half nod.

And then I’m being thrown down, on the ugly rug. My vision swarms as my already sore body aches at the contact of the ground. While I writhe in pain, I hear clothes drop to the floor. See his dark jeans. His work shoes.

I’ve never seen a naked man before, I turn my throbbing head and weakly vomit.

“You’ll just have to clean that up,” he laughs.

He grabs my hair and drags me to the bed. Somewhere outside of myself, I hear wailing and feel legs kicking. It must be me? My nails claw at skin, my teeth biting at fingers. But then, again with a hand on my back, clothes are ripped from me.

I’m so sore. I’m so tired.

His hands are all over. And I’m spread apart as he hunches over on the edge of the bed. The grunts in my ears bring me back to the present, filling my head with his sounds.

_It’ll end, it ended before. You can get through this._

Rationality rushes in trying to seam me together. _Don’t fall apart, Joy._

When it is over I feel a sense of accomplishment. I’ve made it one more time. It’s done. But he doesn’t leave this time. Walking around the room, he puts his underwear back on. Sitting down at the table, he opens the bag and produces a plastic container revealing chicken and salad.

“I’ve gotten you things you can heat up, but I thought tonight you’d like a home cooked dinner.”

Breathing in this spot while I close my eyes. Dinner with mom and dad. To be lying in my real bed meanwhile this falseness is only a nightmare. 

But it isn’t.

“Get up, clean up that mess, and get the fuck over here.”

Tears well up in my eyes. Everything inside me wants to tell him NO. I almost do, but then he’s shouting - a voice I’ve never heard before. Deep and volatile.

The fear that you get late at night when you’re all alone in the house. When you’re lost and it’s getting dark. Nothing is like this. Nothing is like when you’re in a Room with one other person in the whole world, who can do anything to you and no one will know. No one who matters will know; no one except you and him. 

In my head his voice repeats, **"for as long as I want."** I’m up, I’m up, I’m up. Faster than any day I’ve almost missed the bus.

Doing everything he says. Ripping a paper towel to mop up the small bit of vomit. I didn’t eat much the day he took me. “ _Joy, At least take some breakfast_!” It’s all gone now, everything from within me that was from before.

When I quickly move to put the clothes on, he stops me.

“No come sit down.”

Pause one second. 

Pause two. I do.                                                                                                       

I’ve never been naked in front of someone for so long. Not friends, not mom, not the doctors. Dazedly, I sit down at the second chair. Its hardness is rigid against the soreness of my lower body. Hands shaking as my grip reaches the edge of the small table. Breathes come in jagged intakes.

Quickly, I glance up at him and see his eyes all over me. My head falls down. For some reason insecurity sweeps in, to be examined like this. The tears are already rushing back in.

“Don’t cry,” he says, in that conversational tone. More of a suggestion.

He pushes the food closer to me. My stomach, void of the little food I had, churns in hunger and desperation. Except I have no appetite. I feel sick every second.

"Eat," he states, not a suggestion. 

I slowly pick at the lettuce and chicken. Slippery down my throat. Numbly noticing that I’m holding a real fork, not a plastic one.

Interesting.

There are real objects in this Room. 

His voice is in the background, amused and lighthearted. I guess he's happy that I’m obeying. I’ve seen things like this on TV, where the captor trains the victim to become emotionally attached. Some call it Stockholm Syndrome. But I’m not trained. This is all pretend. It’s all for me to survive. Just look the part and don’t reveal what’s inside.

“Hey.” He waves his hands in my direction. “You’re not listening.”

Blankly I look at his face. Taking in the creature who could do all this to me. Where is your weak spot? Where can I find it?

He stares back, starting to smile again. I hate that smile.

“C’mon.”

And this time he stays the night.

 


	4. Chapter 4

A week is the school days and then the weekend. Five days plus two. A week is usually the length of the flu. A week is one out of four that make a month. A week comes and goes. Typically, I’m racing through the week. Maybe it seems slow while it’s happening but before you know it, the week is gone.

I’ve been in this Room for a week.

Every morning is the same: scream, try to figure out the lock code, claw and bang at the skylight. One time after throwing the garbage can at the skylight, it came tumbling back at me, the edge hitting my face. Everything is failing. 

Every evening is the same: Him. 

Me: kicking and screaming. 

This particular afternoon I’m actually eating, heating up oatmeal on this strange stove. There’s no taste on my tongue and the warmness from the meal sliding down my throat is only artificial. Eventually the coldness will set in again.

Putting the bowl down, I begin writing my daily note that I throw into the trash, **HELP ME, PLEASE KEEP READING!** **I’M JOY NEWSOME, AGE 17. FROM ARKON, OHIO. I'VE BEEN KIDNAPPED BY A MAN: MID 40's, CAUCASIAN, DARK HAIR, GLASSES, 6 FT. I’M LOCKED IN SHED WITH A SKYLIGHT, IT'S IN HIS BACK YARD. POSSIBLY STILL IN OHIO. HE OWNS A RED PICK-UP TRUCK. SEND HELP!**

The hope that someone will find them is bleak, because they’ll have to be digging through garbage. But I have to try.

Honestly, all my ideas are proving to be lost causes. I've varied between his nightly visits, from not talking at all, to attempting to convince him that I won’t tell anyone what happened so please, please, please let me go.

"I swear, I _swear_ , I won't tell _anyone_ , I haven't even seen where you live. Please drop me off somewhere, anywhere, _please_." 

I only stop when he finally hits me. Then I'm screaming again. 

This body that used to be mine is littered in bruises. Hand prints and yellow spots from the pressure of being held down. Maybe tonight I won’t fight it. I barely can move around without the pain.

**_You’re so weak._ **

“I know I am,” I speak to no one.

 

* * *

 

Today, I’m imagining what my friends are saying about my disappearance. I usually rotate between family, friends, neighbors, teachers, and anybody who vaguely knew of me. The town in full alert, as one of its own has been snatched away.

_A detective in a clean suit plays with his tie, he’s trying to seem personable and relatable. It’s best to do that with young people, otherwise they might shut down. He's trying to figure out as much as he can, but it doesn't seem to be enough._

_“Let’s say in this one scenario, she ran away. Yes, you’re all young but seventeen? You know that a lot of teenagers do things like this. Joy’s mother said they had a small argument that morning – maybe there was something that set her off? Is there anything she was hiding, that maybe she had to go somewhere else to figure it out?”_

_Danielle’s red face has been running non-stop since she heard the terrible news. But now, instead of despair, she’s angry. She’s so angry on behalf of her friend._

_“I bet you hear things like this all the time, but you don’t know her. You don’t know Joy. She was – she is so smart and good and would never do this to her family, to me. She’s, she’s just a kid! In every sense, I’m not lying. Joy would be so homesick, if she did run away then she’d be back by now. I promise you. You have to know this. You have to cut that scenario out – someone took her! She was on her way home!”_

_The detective wasn’t trying to provoke the young woman. He’s just trying to get all the information possible, leave no stone unturned. It’s been days, which is never good. And no leads. They’ve checked all the sex offenders in the area. They’ve looked at all the cameras in the town to see if there were any footage of this missing girl. Unfortunately, stories like these usually have weak leads. And this poor kid has none. Maybe she ran away, maybe she didn’t. It’s harder to tell when the child is older. The detective’s gut instinct, the one that got him into this business in the first place, says that something terrible happened. Something they’re not going to figure out for a long time – until some monster confesses or a body is found._

_But he can’t say that to her friend. Who’s been participating in any way she can help. Her red eyes from tears and lack of sleep. She’ll never fully get over this. It’s a fraction of her life now. Just like all the girl’s other friends who have come in with that same tearful face._

_“I understand what you’re saying. Again, if you think of any suspicious faces that you’ve seen that week, we’re still trying to land all the leads we can get.”_

_Danielle doesn’t stand up to go, she stays seated and looking lost._

_The detective sighs remorsefully. “Between you and me, wouldn’t it be better if she had run away? That she’s somewhere on her own terms?”_

_He would never say that to the weeping mother or to the father that could barely speak. But to this girl - looking for answers that will give her rest - Joy will not always be her whole world, unlike the missing girl’s family, and one day she’ll leave this place and have to live with what happened._

_Danielle can’t help but wish what he said was true. She knows it isn’t. But still, wouldn’t it be better?_

 

I sink to the floor. Loud cries bounce off easily. I don’t know why I do this to myself.

“I’m right here, I’m right here,” I moan. “I’m alive, someone please.”

Please what?

He’s never letting her out - I mean he’s not letting _me_ out. It’s me who this has happened to. It’s me.

My monster made that crystal clear when I beg him, “There’s only one way you’re leaving this place, and I don’t think you’d like it much.” Honestly I’m not too sure about that. If this is my life now, then I don’t want it.

_Stop it._

“I can’t stop,” I whine.

_Joy, you have to live. You have to._

**_But how can you even live after this, what will everyone think of you?_ **

_They’ll love us – even more for it._

**_But you won’t._ **

_Think of all them, how much they want us back. You’re good and smart. You'll survive._

I’m rushing to my feet. I want to leave this place so much my head feels like it’s cracking open with too much leaking emotion, pushing at the cracks. I examine the forks in the “kitchen.” And even the dull steak knife. It wouldn’t do much damage.

There’s nothing to hold him down in here. Nothing like rope or some sort of material other than a blanket. And I know the material won’t hold.I can’t kill the monster. As much as I think I could by this point. He’d be dead and I’d still be in this room with him. Like nothing changed, except we’d both be rotting.

No, I have to force him. I play with the knife. Looking around the few objects in the room, I take inventory. Maybe I could hit him with the metal folding chair? It may be too clunky in my hand.

“What else? What can I do?”

I look around. The toilet bowl.

Stretching my hand across the top lid of the toilet tank, I see that there’s a loose area on it. I could wrench this off. If I knock him out and then maybe I could make a break for it while the door stays open.

It’s all about the door. Rushing past it.

He always comes in the same way – eyes ahead and bulky in the doorway. I could never rush by him without him noticing. I’ve considered crouching near the wall next to the door and then dashing alongside his feet. Outward towards freedom, yet the prison guard a mere distance behind me. 

So few scenarios – so many ways for me to screw up. I know that I can’t get out without at least debilitating him.  And then I’ll have the knife if all else goes wrong – “give me the pass code!”

I’m too weak for this now. My body aches when I reach over my head. My vision spotty when I move too fast.

Strength is what I need. It’s time to start fighting in a new way.  Excitement churns within me. Maybe I can do this. I can do this.

 

 

 

**BEEP BEEP**

 

 

 

I’m closer this time. Gauging the surroundings – how far I’ll have to be when if it ever comes time.

He scrutinizes my stance and barks at me to back up.

“In fact, every time I come in I want you facing the other direction.”

I look up at him impassively.

“Fine,” I mumble.

My monster doesn’t seem convinced yet. He stretches out his hand and grabs my hair.

“I mean it.”

“Ok,” I breath out in an intentionally frightened voice. You have all the control mister, I’m just a scared little rabbit. I’m not planning anything.

Gazing down at me, his flat eyes give way to dilated pupils. I know what’s coming. And I know that I can’t fight it. I have to gain my strength.

His mouth is on me and all over. Heavy with force and spit. My breath hitches as I try to remain calm. Don’t freak out, don’t act too accommodating, don’t be suspicious. I stand there. Giving nothing and doing nothing. He seems pleased, as he groans loudly and envelopes me. Grabbing and pushing.

Now a body is hard against me, crushing my own weight onto the bed. My hands shaking awkwardly above my neck as he pushes at me. Limbs all over. 

Then thrusts aggressively sink me further into the bed as I scrunch my eyes shut as usual. Strangely, it’s easier than the other times – perhaps it’s my knowledge of why I’m resigning. But the whole act, though eternally disgusting, is easier to overcome. In fact, it’s nothing.

Nothing.

 

* * *

 

It goes on like this for another two weeks. Blur of weeks that are the same each day. Each minute feels like hours long. A deep echo of fear and loneliness. My tears only drying when I'm in a fitful sleep. I rest and rest and rest. When I'm awake, I'm planning. Or screaming to the outside hope that never answers my calls. Tapping buttons on a one-way door. 

But I’m gaining some sort of trust when he's here. Not that I want his trust, it’s just another apple in my bucket.

For him it means that he can force himself into my mouth without the worry that I’ll bite now. I've stopped the biting. The clawing. I simply lie still like I'm dying. He sits at the folding chair and forces me over. A large hand holds me head down as I try to block out the taste and image.

I don’t talk on my accord. I wait for him to ask and I’ll answer then. But I only do it so he feels like he's winning. 

When he stays the night, he whispers awful things. Although it's the mildest of them, the worst is when he says, “Mine, you’re mine.” And even then I can't stop the twin stream of tears. 

I just have to remind myself that it won’t be for much longer.

Eventually all nightmares end, right?

 

* * *

 

“You’ve been very good lately,” he comments, after getting up in the early morning.

He's getting dressed before leaving to start his day. _What a luxury_ , I inwardly seethe.

Remaining under the covers, I'm a statue. Rejoicing in the fact that his body is no longer next to mine and that I’ll get some real sleep now.

But he walks back over and sits on the bed. Two arms come down on both sides of my head.

“I like it.” He smiles down at me.

_Don’t throw up._

He kisses me slower this time, like it’s supposed to be meaningful. What does he sees in me when he does this? A rag doll on mute? A living corpse for him to dig up?

I'm not any of those things. I’m leaving. I’m getting out today.

 


	5. Chapter 5

Because it's day 24.

Ever since I’ve come up with my plan I’ve been on autopilot. All of this is just a temporary situation; a stage before my life begins again. And it’s working because he’s let his guard down. The monster opens the door and closes it with ease, trusting that I’ve acclimated to my new living situation.

_What an idiot._

These past weeks I’ve been stretching, moving my limbs in fast motions. Testing the limits of my body. I’ve never had to overpower someone. Never had to defend myself until now. But I’m going to do it anyway, it’s going to happen.

Because it’s day 24.

I probably could have tried my plan already because I'm psychically stronger now; no more deep bruised arms, bruised head. But every day I tell myself, "tomorrow." And I've held a secret hope that someone would barge through the door - "we're here to save you." But no one has come. And all my other attempts to break out of this prison are futile, this Room proving to be more indestructible than me. 

No more tomorrows. Today. 

Today I'm leaving.

And every second has chipped away at me. I don’t know what’s left on the other side, but I’ll be damned if I don’t find out. I look at my watch, it’s only 1:00 PM. He usually comes by 8:00 PM, maybe sometimes earlier if he wants to eat dinner with me. That means I have to be ready by 6:00 PM.

Ready to strike.

I’m going to hit him over the head with the toilet lid. Smash his brains in while he enters, so that the door is still swinging open and I’ll be running halfway across the earth at that point. And if that fails (for some reason, but it won’t) I’ll have the knife in my back pocket. Ready to threaten him for the pass code.

“What’s the pass code!”

No no, demand it.

“Tell me the pass code!” my throat screams out.

My feet are pounding and I can’t sit still. Part of me wishes it was time already, so I can just get this over with. So I can just be home.

**_But can you do this, Joy?_ **

_Of course we can, he’s just a person. He’s not all powerful. He bleeds too, doesn’t he._

**_Well he’s done all this - you can’t be too sure._ **

_Yes, but we’ll do more. This is all he is, we’re outside of this mess._

Right. Right. Right. This is not me. This is not my life. This is not what I belong to. I’m not part of this anymore. I’m getting out.

**_Joy._ **

“Shut up! Shut up!”

Silence is eerily deafening in the Room. When my brain finally shuts off.

 

* * *

 

The knife is cold in my hand; with quick jabs I’m imagining where his neck stands. I have to remind myself not to kill him if all else goes wrong.

But it can’t go wrong. 

The toilet lid took a little longer to wrench off the hunches then I expected. Nervous sweat dripped away at my brow as I quickly glanced back and forth at the clock. That was hours ago.

Now it’s 6:00 PM

Now it’s 7:20 PM

Now it’s 8:09 PM

Where is he where is he where is he.

8:15 PM.

Crouching next to the door, ready to pounce for more than two hours with this heavy lid in my hands.

Vaguely, somewhere deep down I feel the need to pee.

My body slightly aching from pacing and leaning against the wall.

It’ll be worth it, it’ll be worth it.

There’s nothing to hear, even this close to the door. I figured he must have soundproofed the Room. That’s why no one ever hears my screaming. Or maybe he doesn’t even live near anyone. For all I know, as I only see tall hedge bushes when the door quickly opens and shuts every day, he could be in the middle of nowhere.

Who knows what I’m running out into? Will there be people? Will they even help me? Will he be running fast behind me? Will I die? Will I live?

 

 

 

**BEEP BEEP.**

 

 

Door opens. Swish of air. 

Arms are bent.

The Lid is heavy against his head. 

Fluid motion. 

No no no no no nono.

The monster is falling against the door in a scramble. He’s big and blocky as a crushing rock-slide that tramples everything in its path.

My hands can barely reach beyond him and past the door that closes in under 5 seconds. My body couldn’t meet that speed.

Knife Knife Knife.

And from my pocket it’s now out against his neck where blood drips down his head.

_He bleeds, he bleeds too._

“Give me the code.”

He’s looking at my eyes, whatever he sees there, I see nothing in his.

“Now,” I coolly state. I’m in control. Stay in control.

The pass code he says runs in my head like a machine. Type it in fast. 553E.

5.

5.

3.

E.

Where's the beep? There’s no beep. Shit no no no.

Eyes that I tried to keep bouncing from him to quickly scanning the keypad.

And then there’s this snapping noise. Pain shooting in my wrist.

Screams echoing off the walls. It’s me.

It hurts so much.

Everything hurts. The failure. The inevitable.

I barely can think about how this went so wrong as I cradle the throbbing agony against my chest. My wrist is broken. I am broken.

Having been also shoved to the ground, I wrap myself in a ball. He’s somewhere across Room, I hear him rummaging through silverware. I guess he’s taking the knife and anything else he feels is a danger. But isn’t he’s the danger?

**_You couldn’t do it. You failed. You’re going to die here._   **

Surprisingly, I apparently still have tears left as moisture escapes down my face. I gaze disappointingly at the broken toilet lid.

Cracked in two. **_Useless_**. 

Like me.

“You think you can get away with something like that? Think that it would be that easy?”

Don’t answer him.

“I've aleady told you how this would go down, Joy.”

I never told him my name. I didn’t have to – my name was all over the news. He had proudly told me that weeks ago.

“You ever, ever do something like this again…” he says, and shakes his head in mock disbelief.

My monster inches closer. He’s blotting the wound on his head with a hand towel.

“I’ll leave you here to rot. Maybe I’ll come back in two or three months to see what’s left.” He shrugs his shoulders.

Starvation, dehydration, decay. How long would it take?

Dying in a hole like a wild animal. It would take weeks. I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from rationing out my water and food supplies. No quick death. And then eventually that would end, I would run out of my rations quickly and yet still stagger on. Drink my piss. Drink the toilet water. 

White hot fear is heavy in my stomach. I don’t want to die. 

It’s beyond anything I’ve ever imagined. I can’t do that. Please don't do that Please Please Please. 

“Please...”

Crying crying crying. How many times can he watch me cry? 

He paces back and forth.

“When you came here, I told you it would be an adjustment. You’re just not trying hard enough. I give second chances but that’s it. If you’re too much of a bitch hassle to keep around, I won’t do it,” he states with finality.

Staggering breath, “I... wont… I won’t be.”

Inhale exhale inhale exhale.

“Get out of the fucking doorway.”

I’m shuffling as far past him as I can. With the quick beep, that should have been my code, he’s gone already.

And now I’m the one who’s still here.

My wrist aches so badly. But not as much as the ache in my heart.

 


	6. Chapter 6

What day is it? I don’t know.

 

Another day? I don’t know.

 

Is someone on top of me? I don’t know.

 

* * *

 

The fog clears on and off and I remember that I’m here.

And then crying. Weeping. Sobbing.

Please please please. 

The skylight is the only bright bulb in this rotting dungeon. And like a moth to a flame, I hover sporadically. With no real purpose - just drawn to the light of greater hope that doesn't belong to the insects below. Crawling unnoticed.

Pain in my wrist surges and reminds me that I'm still alive. If I try hard, I can pretend to ignore it - the pain and the life. I no longer have to cradle it close to my chest at all times, I can let it dangle if I choose not to care.

 

* * *

 

_**What was that?** _

Something moved. Was it near the chair?

I roll out of bed, whipping my head in each direction.

There, what is that?

_**Wait behind you?** _

Behind me.

“What, what is it? What is it?”

I sprint from each side of the Room, combating whatever motion that was there.

 

 

I’m losing my mind.

 

* * *

 

My period arrived. I completely forgot about it, but it's definitely been late for a while. Months. I can’t believe that life still exists inside of me. Doesn’t my body know I am vacant?

When he comes that night, I actually feel a sting of embarrassment when I tell him. I never usually speak to him. But I need tampons or anything along those lines. He makes a noise of disgust. It shouldn’t bother me. Why does it bother me?

There’s a more pressing issue. I never associate what he does to me as sex – how could it be when all I know is rape? I never thought about the fact I could get pregnant.

_**Fucking idiot.** _

Shouldn’t we be using protection?

But, _oh_ , the “we” makes want to die. There is no “we.” I still have to ask.

He looks at me like I’m crazy. “And what are they going to think when I start buying birth control? Don’t you think that would be suspicious?”

No. Illegal actions, like kidnapping, just make you paranoid. But I don’t say that.

“Besides it’s too expensive,” he states.

Why would he do anything for me, why would I even ask?

“And… what about um condoms?” I mumble. I hate him for making me be the one to do this. To have this conversation. 

He laughs.

“No, I don’t like those,” the monster declares.

Everything he wants he gets.

“Besides,” he continues, “what’s so bad about babies?”

A small noise escapes from me. He looks over and smiles that awful grin.

Will he kill me when I become pregnant? Maybe cut it out of me? Or is he actually insinuating that I have children with him? That we all live in this Room together - one big happy family.

I used to have a family. Still do I think? 

“I can tell what’s on your mind,” he guesses. “In fact, I think we’re on the same page for once.”

He draws in closer.

I don’t feel the need to pretend I’m compliant for safety, no unnecessary respect that might save my already broken neck. Nor do I fight to the absolute death to protect myself. Bruised and already buried. Neither is a solution and neither is what I care.

I just cringe far away, turn my head, roll into a ball, try to close in on my body. Cry and push. But he always wrenches me apart.

“All women want babies, right?”

But I’m a just a baby. I want to say it, but I don’t talk to him unless I need something.

I always stay as quiet as I can. Eerily without noise. When he asks me his own questions, I’m at a standstill. Even though his voice seeps with anger and his vengeful hands push me down. I’ve gone days and weeks without as so much as making a noise around him.

He hates it.

I know my reactions are part of what gets him off. How could it not be? This whole charade that he’s the all-powerful force and I must entirely bend to his whim. He is gravity and I am the planet in his orbit. I am to be held bound and circling in whatever direction he chooses. So my silence is just another rebellion in his eyes.

But to me, it’s only my numbing brain shutting everything out.

 

* * *

 

Sometime, when I wake up, I realize it must be almost 4 months since I’ve first entered this Room. I stopped counting the consecutive days but it has to be around that time. 

And I’m going to get pregnant. I have no idea what that will mean. This cannot happen.

“Why me?”

 _Joy_.

“What am I supposed to do?

 ** _Joy_**.

“I don’t know what to do.”

 _Joy_ **_Joy_** _Joy_ **_Joy_** _Joy_ **_Joy_** _Joy_.

“Please.”

I still scream as loud as I can for someone somewhere to hear. I still write out my cries for help and stick them in the garbage, so when he takes it out maybe my message in a bottle will be found. I still type away on the keypad, ultimately to no avail.

Looking around the Room that I stare at every day. Every day. Every day. My same old. Is there something new I should be looking at?

I kick the ground.

Hmm.

The tiles are big squares. They’ve always been a funny material. Retrieving a big spoon and dull butter knife from the kitchen, one of the few utensils he’s left me, I test how it punctures the ground.

Luckily it was my left hand that was hurt. The tip of the spoon goes into the soft, squishy material.

Interesting.

I am robotic as I attempt to move the bed, moving it one way and then switching to the front of the bed to pull it out further. Could this even work? Can I dig through the ground and then through the dirt and out from the shed?

Centuries ago, I used to dig holes in my back yard. My parents hated it. They’d come back and push the dirt back in. I had learned about the expression, “digging your way to China” at school.

Remember school?

Maybe the kids at school still talk about me. The holidays have passed. I wonder if mom and dad had put up a tree? The image of them alone in the house makes me feel even lonelier here. Maybe Paul came home from college. Ready to comfort our parents for all that they had lost as a family. At least they still have my brother. I wonder if all this has finally made him take a break from school. He was always working so hard.

My bad hand lays flat on the ground to give me leverage. The fracture still burns inside my bones.

_Ignore it. Mind over matter._

“If you don't mind it doesn't matter.” I roll my eyes as if it was my mother saying it.

_Oh Joy…_

“I’m sorry,” my watery voice calls out to no one. I wish they could all hear me.

Imagine the long awaited reunions after I get out. All of the faces of those I love. That’s what I think while I pound away at the ground with my spoon and butter knife.

 

* * *

 

It takes two days to dig through the rubbery tile and under the strange material of the floor-bed. Sick hope radiated from my stomach, filling my throat and head with too much air. Hot pain in my wrist. Digging underneath the floor, I couldn’t wait to see dirt.

_Is this it? IS THIS IT?_

I don’t know why it never occurred to me to do this. It’s just that the thought of digging through the ground never crossed my mind. Maybe too risky, who knows how long it will take to dig and wriggle my way out. What if he comes back during the great escape?

“Forget about him.”

I’ll never forget him. Even if I get out of here.

Sometimes the hate hurts more than any of it. I can’t believe I have to host all these feelings, like a virus. My heart has been transformed into a Pandora’s box; filled with awful images of him. And from being in this Room all day long with this girl that I no longer recognize. When will I know myself again? No, I’ll never stop hating him.

Thankfully I miss the outside the most. Everything out there represents hope and love. While this inside room reveals a living tomb. It’s dead and still dying. I can even smell it, the same old dirty air surrounding me. Rotting. Just like me.

When the shallow hole I’m digging at hits something hard I thought it might be a rock. After it doesn’t budge along the whole side of it I realize something is wrong.

“What is it?”

Chain mill.

He’s put a chain-mill fence along the bottom of the floor-bed.

For some reason, even at this point, shooting fear rocks through me. I’ll never wrap my head around the amount of prep work that went into this shed. Like he’s always been waiting for me.

Quickly, I’m turning behind as if someone is behind me.

What was that???

 ** _Joy_**.

Letting out the most gut-wrenching scream.

“I don’t understand, I just, how can this…” I wail.

I’ll can barely contemplate that I once had a life before this. How I used to be a person. A real life person. And now, by some life calling or maybe twist of fate, I was dragged here to be trapped here.

Laying down flat on the worn out rug, I look up. There’s rain today. Hitting the skylight.

Remember playing in the rain? Remember warm showers? Remember being clean? Do you remember real privacy? The kind of privacy that is self-employed, sought out, and decided for.

This is just solitary confinement. Locked up. Thrown away the key.

A lowly cage and I’ll never get out. Not until I die.

 

* * *

 

He finds the hole later that week.

Forces me off the mattress so he can check under the bed. Saying something about the circulation of the room being different than usual, more dusty and thick.

“I’ve always been good at telling these sort of things,” he says, shaking his head when he examines the hole.

And then booming laughter that makes me jump. 

Is this it? Was this my last strike on his list of rules?

“You thought you were going to dig your way out, really?” He belly laughs while rocking on his heels.

I can feel my cheeks burning as something that brings him so much humor was my whole world in one hopeful plan. After he’s done wiping his eyes, the monster looks lightheartedly in my direction.

“Aw no need to cower.” He waves it off. “I’d known there would be instances like this, what with all this time on your hands. That’s why I filled all the walls and floors with the chain. See I thought of everything.”

Yeah he thought of it all. What a skillful prison guard.

“You do have too much time on your hands. I was thinking about getting a small TV in here. It would be real helpful for you. Ya know, getting through this process. Would you like that?”

Don’t answer.

He’s still chuckling. “But don’t you get any other ideas than this, nothing like last time. Or it will be the last time.”

Stay quiet.

“Because nothing, and I mean nothing will ever, ever make me tell you the code. I fucking mean it. I’m taking it to my grave. Along with you,” he grins at his “joke.”

I’m just a little mouse, don’t come closer to me, because I’m scurrying away away away. 

He always catches me.

 


	7. Chapter 7

Sometimes even I can barely stand the smell coming off me. Can’t remember the last time I’ve bathed. My skin is caked in dust, though I scratch away with my long nails at the itch and uncleanliness, I’m still not washing. The longer I go without it the more he reels back after coming close.

“You’re a basket-case you know that?” My monster tells me.

No answer for him.

“Hey, you hear me?”

He gets up from the chair and makes his way to the bed, pulling my chin in his direction. But looking closely at my dirty face and oily hair, his hand recoils in further disgust.

“Gonna get sick if you don’t wash ya idiot,” he says, shaking his head good-humoredly. But I know he’s not.

This resistance began as a way to prevent him from wanting me. It hasn’t worked out so well.

But I’ll take any of the few nights he can’t hold his breath any longer and pushes me away in defeat. He hates defeat and so his slimy touch is replaced with hard fists. My skin is all bruises. By now, I really don’t care if I do get sick. I don’t care if I’m repulsed by the way I smell. I don’t even brush my teeth. My gums aching from neglect.

What began as a rebellion plan revealed my true intentions; I just don’t give a shit anymore.

I sleep most of the day anyway. It’s the only time I’m not crying. One would think that from lack of movement and numerous naps, that I wouldn’t be able to fall asleep. But it’s quite the opposite.

The dreary sadness in my bones is better than any sleeping pill. On an average, I probably sleep away 16 hours of the day.

When I am awake, my eyes glue themselves to the TV he had brought me. It’s small and sometimes fuzzy on certain networks. I flip from channel to channel, numbing my mind with soap operas, commercials, sitcoms, and local news. That’s how I found out I’m still in-state. Rain forecasts and community news revealing that I’m far up north from my hometown. But still same state. I feel a little less far away – it's only a little thing. 

There’s a limited number of channels but I don’t care what it shows just as long as there is that little light and noise in the background.

Before my world ended, I had no appetite when I was sad. I just couldn’t force myself to eat if I was upset about something - I'd go to bed without dinner. I was such as spoiled moron. 

Now I’m hungry all the time. And I don’t just think it’s my body trying to make up for lack of nutrients. It’s this starved mindset that connects to my stomach. It’s as if he never brings enough groceries. I see all these food advertisements on the TV and my mouth hurts from wanting it all. I do want it _all_. The whole thing. To be sitting in that restaurant when the waiter brings out the steaming plate of pasta and hot Alfredo chicken.

With soda refills for everyone. Coke or Sprite. And the group of friends throw their heads back in laughter and turn to each other.

Turning their backs on me.

Hey! “I’m right here!”

**_None for Joy._ **

The TV screen always has something to say.

 

* * *

 

Tonight, he opens the door and stares at me. My growling stomach had forced me out of bed. Now I’m crouched on the floor watching a LIFETIME movie. One where a woman is trying to escape from her abusive husband. The ending will be cheesy and unrealistic. You can’t escape anyone, right?

**_Right._ **

He has something in his hands. A shower scrub.

Oh no.

He passes me quickly and moves over to the tub against the wall, turning the nozzle to fill it up with water.

I’m a statue.

Don’t act. Don’t move. Don’t live.

He’s eerily quiet. He usually always has something to say. Something to criticize me for, “You don’t throw anything into the garbage,” or “are you ever going to change out of that dress, it’s been like a month since you put it on,” or “You’re not listening.”

Now he glances at me. And he’s walking over fast.

Shit.

Hands roping around my arms and pulling at the root of my hair. 

Screaming. I can’t help the screaming. I’m kicking too, deep inside some small part of me is proud that I put up a fight. 

_You’re alive. That’s what matters. Stay alive._

“STOP! Get off me!”

I see a quick reflection of my face in the bath water. Face contorted and unrecognizable. When was the last time I looked in the mirror, I have a moment to ponder.

Right before my head is plunged in to the water.

In and out. 

In and out.

Hold your nose, hold your nose. Don’t let water in, don’t choke.

Up again, deep breath.

Back again, hand around my neck can’t hold it in.

Choking I’m choking. Like his stupid, fake, choking dog. Choking me, but nobody to help. Nobody like stupid me. 

Head is exploding. Hands and fingers are gone. 

Watery eyes sting like when my Mom would pour water over my head during bath time.

_Ma. Ma!_

I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Please. Let them know I’m sorry.

Bright white spots clouding the blackness of my vision. It doesn’t hurt anymore.

 

 

 

 

Born again. Light invades as new life breathes into this body.

My body.

I can feel all ten fingers, reaching up onto my sore neck, where water is dripping down from my coughing mouth.

Breath in and out in and out.

“Shit.”

Oh he’s here still?   

“See you what you made me do?” a growl in my ear.

It was better before, in the silence, in the dark.

“You had to be difficult, make me wash you like you’re five frickin’ years old.”

I wish I was five right now.

_Ma, I’m five._

I’m up, up, up. Bending over to breathe openly, gasping for more. Eyes see him crouched down next to me.

“Now are you ready to behave yourself?”

No, never really. But my sore throat is burning to be left alone. I don’t want to be hurt anymore. Sometimes I hate the moments when I care.

“Clothes off,” he motions at me.

My arms are sore. I take one sleeve off at a time, too slow apparently. Because now he’s helping me. “ _Helping_.” Off quicker than I can breathe. One hand assisting me into the tub, ha what a fine gentleman.

“Here baby,” he’s putting soap on my shoulders. In my hair.

“C’mon isn’t this better? You must have been dying like that,” he shakes his head.

He’s rubbing the bath scrub all over me. Fills up a bowl with water and pours it down my body, water cascading off me in a waterfall. I’m clean now. But not really. I’ll never really be.

Looking up, I see his dead eyes. They’re blue. Icy and cold. Mine are brown and warm. Maybe that’s why he wants me. Living off the heat of my soul, because I’m alive and he isn’t. Sucking me dry of all I have left. 

His hand on my cheek. Dipping lower. Always digging, always painful.

“Do you know how beautiful you are? I know girls can be self-conscious. But you, you really are something. You don’t know what you do to me."

His hand falling downward, downward.

I'm awake. 

And yes - I do care. Even after the darkness fading behind my eyes and the big hands around my wet neck, I'm still here.

I'm solid in this water. And I'm alive sometimes, aren't I? 

_You're always alive and your life always matters._

So I clamp my legs shut and roll over. “No!”

But his arm is stronger than my whole body. And now he’s stretching to his full height, dropping his pants.

He won’t be able to fit in here?

I guess he doesn’t care. Because he’s in the tub and on me. For a second I’m submerged again while his hands grapple with locating my body parts, folding my legs around him. Pain and more pain. I scratch him, digging into flesh. 

I’ll never get used to this. Never.

There really isn’t room for his height to be laying on top of me. So he leans back and sits down, dragging me along with him. I push at his shoulders, but it does no good as his arms are locked around me. Our bodies below are lost. Beating his chest does nothing. And he'll hurt me worse if I go for his eyes - as memory serves me well. 

Instead I try to gain leverage by gripping the tub, even at this awkward angle, but he drags me back from the slippery edge.

“Shhh stop, stop it now,” he warns.

That voice leveling me with what he could do to me. Is sex better than being beaten? Or drowned? I think it’s all the same really. It’s all pain.

My ragged breath begs me to stop. I’m too weak to do anything else. Ashamed, I wrap my arms around myself, as he reopens one arm to drag me close to his chest. Limbs like long thorn branches engulf me. 

It’s a long time before he finishes. Then he’s quivering a mess, gasping in release. While I'm a locked cage, rusting away in the dampness. 

He's drags me out of the tub. Feet over the tub and then rushing to roll us to the bed.

“You smell clean,” he laughs.

No I don’t.

 

* * *

 

“Tonight at 10:00, are you doing everything you can to prevent identity theft? And in other breaking news, Joy Newsome, the missing Ohio teen, body has been found today. The nationwide search has come to an end when two joggers passed a body in the forest this morning. After her identification, autopsy reports reveals Newsome had drowned. No suspects involved yet.”

Shooting out of bed. I stare at the TV Screen. What?

But it’s only a news special on stolen credit cards. I roll back over.

“Joy Newsome is dead.”

No. No. I’m not.

_**Kill yourself.** _

“Joy Newsome.”

**_Do it._ **

I roll slowly out of bed this time.

_**Joy.** _

Grab the remote and off the TV. Bang bang, you’re gone.

Turning around but something catches my eye.

That chair wasn’t there before??

When I reach it, the wooden surface blinks unsteadily. I sit down.

But from here the bed is huge, so huge. It takes up all the space in the Room. I rush back to it, to make it normal.

Dizzy now and the chair moved again! STOP IT.

I turn the TV back on.

 

* * *

 

Today I’m angry.

Some days I’m only sad. Some days I’m both. Some I don’t feel anything. Others I just sleep. But today I’m angry.

Felt it the moment I woke up. I take in these four walls. And why aren’t they burning down yet.

Should I just light the Room on fire? No one would see the smoke at first, his ventilation made it so the smoke from the oven can’t be seen or smelled. It would just burn down until it was too late and I was ashes.

Oh well?

_No. You're alive. It’s okay._

But it’s not okay. It’s never going to be okay. And I hate him so much, I hate him, I hope he dies and I can watch.

When he opens and closes the door tonight, I scream. As loud as I can. No one will hear me - I know that by now. I do it merely to bother him.

“Stop it!” he yells back. “Quit the noise!”

But I’m shouting louder. My lungs fresh of air and excited to work. 

He’s rushing to plow me down. I’m still screaming as he hits me over and over.

I’m still screaming.

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Old Nick's POV

When the bitch finally stopped her hollering, I wondered what ideas were spinning around in that little head of hers. My head. Warm eyes and furrowed eyebrows observing everything around her. Mine.

I sure knew how to pick them, always did. Never had time for women who didn’t have a thought in their head. She challenged me, keeps me on my toes. All the times I’ve had to teach her. Knew it from the moment I saw her bundled in her coat, walking to school, her mind somewhere else in deep thought.

Eventually I’m going to fully crack her, like an egg. Get inside that head. Live there forever where it’s probably better than the real world. Where I can decide what’s best. Away from all the deviants who walk outside of the beacon I’ve created. Entirely in my own backyard.

Who else could have done this? No one. Look what I’ve created.

She has yet to understand how grateful she should be. Think of all the girls out there who don’t have a home, electricity, or food in their bellies. I provide all of this. One day she’ll stop her cries for good. I mean, we all will wont we?

When she tells me she’s pregnant I guess I’m not too surprised. Must be why she stopped that wretched screaming, didn’t want to get her ass whooped anymore.

In fact, she usually looks drained most of the time, resigned. Boring.

Hmm, a baby. This means more groceries, more money, more annoying crying. Maybe I’ll get rid of it when the thing is born, who knows. I remember months ago when she was worried about getting pregnant, I told her all women want babies. But do I want her to have a baby? I suppose I don’t really care. Might give her something to do during the day, drag her further into my corner. Because I’m in control. Maybe it’ll steadily liven her up – I hate when she acts like a corpse. Because she isn’t one yet, I can see that in her. I know her.

Arriving at work, I can’t help but smile at the thought – what if the baby is a girl? Two in one hand.

“Catch the game last night?” Mike tiredly asks me. He doesn’t actually want to know. It’s always small talk.

Because now he’s looking over his shoulder at the group forming by the lunch tables. And walking away before I can even answer the moronic question he asked in the first place.

These idiots I work with think I’m a loser. I see them going out for beers after the day is over, patting each other on the back for a job well done. What a laugh. Sometimes I hear them sharing glimpses of their pathetic lives; wives and children and pickup games.

None of them know what it’s like to be in control, real and total control. They think they can boss me around, hand me all the dirty work around here. It’s impossible for them to imagine how I go home to a kingdom, where everything I declare is law. Bet their wives rule over them instead. No, they don’t understand true power.

I feel that familiar thrill of excitement coursing through me as I turn the key to my engine. There’s a secret waiting for me at home – one that no one knows. Only me.

The shed is not on any map. There’s no grid to locate it. A small galaxy that only belongs to me.

I remember over a year ago, when I would gaze outside the window at my barren backyard. Tired of coming home every day to an empty feeling. I would find women when I could, but it was hard. The kind I liked, the ones that were worthy of my time, didn’t pay much attention to me on their own accord. I changed that, when I could. Then it hit me that I could create something different, where I wouldn’t have to look far for someone to put my energy into. Someone to provide for. Like those idiot co-workers, always bragging about taking care of their spouses. I could do that. Do it better. And I did, yes I showed them all.

Now I have something none of them have; the young and beautiful.

Chuckling as I tap the code onto the key pad and the door swings open.

She’s squaring her shoulders already, attempting to look casual as she can but her eyes are already darting in concentrated fear. The TV hums distantly in the background.

 _Silly girl,_ I inwardly laugh. As if she could fool me – trying to show that she’s not afraid.

I take her in familiar appearance; small frame and messy brown hair.

Wild thing deep in my forest. A mystery only I can solve. She’s just a lost key. And I’m the lock. Always.

Now her arms stretch protectively around her stomach. 

 _Ah, that’s it. The baby._ This may be very useful in the long run.

Her miserable eyes gaze upward at me as I approach. There’s nothing she can do anymore.

 

* * *

 

“Could you at least get me a book about childbirth? That way I’ll know what to do and won’t have to bother you,” her shrill voice complains.

Ugh. I was right. This brat was livening her up – except in all the wrong ways.

Now she’s asking for new things every day.

Pills and vitamins. Better food. Even toothpaste. Too bad she already ruined those once white teeth.

“I’ll see what I can do,” I halfheartedly tell her.

I watch her eyes narrow in anger, making my fist automatically clench.

Can’t quite push her around the same way. Not since her huge stomach makes her waddle from wall to wall. Not that she doesn’t deserve a lesson here and there, but now it just doesn’t feel the same. I don’t even want to sleep with her most nights.  

I can’t wait for that thing to be out of her. For things to go back to as they were. Because I can feel the mysterious air, that lovely thrill deep in my chest, dimly fading every time I come in here to bring something as ridiculous as diapers. Boring.

What am I here for? Her chores? No.

“And I need you to move that box to the other side,” she says, pointing.

I gaze down at that smug face; does she think she’s in control? Like some nagging wife?

My mother thought she could boss my father around, guess that’s why he left. Left too soon and too late. That bastard never finished what he started, what he showed me. All I had left to learn. 

She should be groveling at my feet, here with a warm roof over her head. Does she think that this is cheap? Growing up, I barely had an ounce of what she has now.

“How about you shut the hell up for one second?” I shout.

Her eyes do that run-bunny-run look. That’s right, don’t you forget who’s in charge here. Me. It’s mine to own.

“It’s just, I, I want everything to be ready for when he comes,” her watery voice is small.

As if I could be fooled with the sympathy card.

Haven’t asked her out right, but I’m assuming she believes the kid will be a boy. Boring.

She uses the pronoun “him” a lot when speaking about the baby. And I’ve seen boy names scribbled on papers around the Room. “Jack” heads most of these lists. Dumb name.

Rolling my eyes. “I’m sure you’ll handle it well enough.”

Who cares? 

But I see her face scrunch into a worried mask. Hands reaching down to that giant belly. Strange that she already loves it. What if it’s annoying? What if it won’t leave her alone?

What if it kills her? Does she ever even think about that?

A strange feeling washes over me in a small wave. Looking back at her, I locate my feelings – resentful of her affection for this nonexistent thing. Suddenly the glow surrounding her seems too bright.

Who does she think she is, an angel? Too good for me? Because she can love this thing?

“Get out of my way,” I ground out.

Scrambling as fast as she can, her stick legs move her round body to the far corner.

I need to get out of here. The air is suddenly too heavy, too difficult to breathe around her.

 

* * *

 

I wince as another scream pierces the Room.

It’s been 3 hours since I’ve entered the shed; finding her panting and pacing in a circle. With sweat drenching her face and hair.

Disgusting.

Apparently the kid is on its way. She’s made weird guttural noises every couple of minutes. 

By now she’s laid down across the rug, pulling up her dress to reveal a crowning head below. I don’t know much on the subject. But it seems like there hasn’t been much progress in the last hour. Her breathing has gotten heavier and she often grips the floor in support as she strains.

The last month I’ve admittedly struggled with this transition. What it means for my life, the differences I’ll have to face in her new body, her new attitude.

Maybe it’ll be time for new lessons. New opportunities. It’s what gets me by.

And I’ve finally concluded that she’s just another animal giving birth to a creature. Sweating and groaning as if she’s in a field. She isn’t an angel, no better than me. Though I know she thinks she is.

My fist aches.

“Please help,” she begs me for the fourth time. “I think, I think something is _really_ wrong.”

Her pathetic voice. There is no mystery in this moment. Too bared, too open, too vulnerable in the worst way.

Not my way.

“Can feel the head, he's coming,” she whines in pain.

But I remain standing resiliently still, just as she used to do to me. 

“Oh no, oh no.”

She’s weeping.

“There’s the cord, get the cord!” her screeches echo. 

I cross my arms.

“Please! The cord is around his head!” Her short limbs are not long enough to reach around that round stomach, to the baby below.

She can’t get herself out of this mess. Her mess. Not mine.

 

* * *

 

The child is born blue.

But it’s kind of pretty as I examine the delicate features.

Living dead thing. Just like her mother. It was alive at one point, probably a mere hour ago in the womb. My womb, her womb, the one that belongs to me. Now their eyes will never wake up. 

The baby was a girl – just another discredit to her mother’s intuition. 

There's low sobbing behind me that has only become more rigorous. I suppose she’ll be back to her old antics after this; ranging from spontaneous screaming to eerie quietness.

Great.

When will it feel the same as it used to. Where was the girl I found, molded anew?

But I guess in some ways it’s similar to her first weeks here. Those golden weeks. Pain and despair over something fresh, inexperienced until now. Interesting. Maybe there’s still hope for us.

After I dig a deep hole in my lawn and throw the heavy bag into its depths, I return to the shed.

“You buried her in the backyard, didn’t you?” she asks, without turning around.

“Where else should I have put it?” I’m already angry if she's going to start nagging.

But that's not what happens. 

“Just kill me,” her voice is void of any substance.

Interesting.

She’s never asked me that before. A new mystery.

So, I smile at her.

“I’m in charge. I decide what lives and dies.”

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end! A happier moment.

Breathe in and out in and out in and out.

Another scream escapes me.

_You can do this it’s okay._

**_You don’t know that, this could be the end._ **

_No, listen to me now._

“Okay, okay I can,” I inhale and exhale.

Last time the baby died while leaving me. 

Everything's going to work for round two. I’m going to live again.

The despair of her death left me in a new set of ruins, lonelier after having anticipated new company to be with me.

I’m going to live for something else, for someone else.

This child wasn’t dying and neither was I.

_You can do this._

I can, I can, I can do this.

I’ve read every baby book I begged him to buy. Now I knew how to shift the baby by shifting my own movements, how to properly feel inside myself for the head, how long between contractions I should wait to push.

Moaning at the pain, I relish how awake I feel.

After so much time of feeling like I was gone and unrecognizable, I am now beginning to see my identity. I know who I am again.

I’m going to be a mother.  

_Ma._

“C’mon, we can do this,” I encourage the baby.

Pacing in a circle, I wait between contractions for the opportune moment to lay down and start heavily pushing.

It’s been hours now. I can feel it getting closer and closer.

 

 

 

**BEEP BEEP.**

 

The door is swinging open and he must be coming in to watch again. Yesterday, I had contraction pains and he knows that I was due any day. But it’s not like that monster will do anything to help me. No, he only likes to watch me in my worst moments.

“Get out!” I scream in my loudest voice.

I don’t care if I get into trouble for that.

And he’s quickly shutting the door, leaving me to it. I’m almost surprised that he listened, but I don’t have time to pay attention to the monster. No, I’m concentrating on my baby.

Breathe in and out in and out. 

In and out. Just like all the other painful moments of my life.

But this one’s a good pain, it feels right. My body is working in all the right ways, I can do this I can do this.

After about another hour I’m ready to lay on the ground and get this kid out of me. Screaming loud as I can, I grip the edges of the carpet and push push push push push.

With a slippery feeling, a body is moving out of me. Stain on the rug. Quickly checking the ambilocal cord, I grab the scissors next to me to cut and tie a knot in the end of it.

And there he is. Hot pink and mouth agape. Wiggling toes. 

I have a son.

The attachment is immediate, as I lay him onto my chest. Who could _ever_ hurt someone when they were staring onto the eyes of a such a creation? How can some man possibly kidnap me and hurt me every day when beauty like this exists? 

Tears flow from my eyes and drip onto my baby. My baby.

And loud cries, that are for once not my own, are sailing off the room.

Patting his back, I move to the bath tub I had filled to clean him off. He’s crying louder as new world water is bathing him, something he’s never experienced.

“You’ll get used to it, it’s okay.”

Swaddling him tight, I tuck him into a make shift crib that I had created out of a sturdy wooden box, layered with plentiful comforters and blankets. When he’s old enough he’ll share the bed with me.

But suddenly, at the thought of him getting older, fear strikes me coldly. The terrible image of him being a man while in this room. As if my monster would ever allow that. He won’t let him grow all the way up. Someday he’ll take my son from me. Or kill us. Or just my baby.

As I bath myself off, I’m washing away my old life. The one who gave up, the one who bit and scratched, the one who laid in a cocoon of filth and sadness. No, I'm alive with _him_. My child. And I won’t let this monster harm my baby. Everything I am is now dedicated to prevent it. 

One day we’re getting out of here. One day soon maybe. One day late maybe.

But one day nonetheless.

Picking him up from the crib, he’s starting to wiggle awake again, hungry.

This life is a hungry one.

Poor baby.

But it’s hunger that makes your rise. And I will. We will.

These are the little things I promise him, all the smallness of life that is part of the bigger picture. He’s going to live and experience the whole of it. The world I had understood before all this mess; from the minuscule to the immense. Little important things you never stop to think about. He’s going to know them all.

Sitting down on the bed, I bring him close to me.

“Jack,” I naturally say. “I love you.”

_I love you._


End file.
